


Pretty Little Thing

by TreasureHunter



Series: Les Mis Soulmate AU [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Animal Shelter, Gen, Grantaire is a Mess, Joly is an amazing friend, Light Angst, Pining Grantaire (Les Misérables), Rescue kitten, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:22:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29431647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreasureHunter/pseuds/TreasureHunter
Summary: One day Grantaire finds a stray kitten and brings it to an Amis meeting.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Grantaire & Joly, Pre-Relationship - Relationship
Series: Les Mis Soulmate AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1878214
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	Pretty Little Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!  
> This fic takes place about a year and three months after Enjolras' and Grantaire's first meeting, but is not the big main fic that I spoke of earlier in which they get together (that's starts about ten months later, in-universe). This is, quite literally, about Grantaire finding a kitten. I would've uploaded it earlier, but I wasn't satsisfied with it at all and did a major rewrite, so I hope you all like it!
> 
> The title comes from Dog Eats Dog, or The Sewer!

Barely does the soft sound rise above the everyday noise of the busy street. Grantaire pauses mid-step, cocks his head, and just about makes out the pitiful wailing coming from a small and damp alley. People mutter and shoot him dirty looks as he blocks the middle of the sidewalk. None of them notice the sounds, or if they do, they’re content to ignore it in favour of walking home faster as snow continues softly falling around them.

Not that they don’t have a point. Grantaire contemplates following their example, imagines the warmth of the Musain as he tugs his jacket closer around him. He’s been meaning to get a new one for some time already, but always put it off. Saving for a new set of quality brushes, or long hot summer months that made a winter coat seem superfluous. Past-Grantaire is an idiot.

He thinks of Enjolras, who will most certainly be angry should he arrive late (and oh, how he savours that anger). For about a year now he’s managed to skim the line between just-in-time and fashionably-late, and Enjolras’ irritated eye twitch has become as reliable as clockwork. The Musain is close by and beckons with the promise of a strong drink; if he leaves now he’ll enter the backroom just after Enjolras calls everyone to order. In addition to the snow, it makes for a very compelling argument.

Then the mewling comes again and Grantaire’s heart, much as he denies its existence, leaves him no choice. He turns and carefully enters the tiny space between two ancient six-story apartment buildings. They date back some hundreds of years and the recently finished restoration works leaves their sculpted façades beautiful for another couple centuries. If it weren’t so freezing cold Grantaire would pull out his sketchpad to put down some quick lines.

No snow falls down the alley between the two overhanging roofs, but neither does the last sunshine of the day. His eyes roam the alley, waiting impatiently to adjust to the dark, and Grantaire shivers in the cold. That winter coat just jumped priorities on his to-buy list. 

The noise, slightly louder this time, originates from between a stack of crates piled high next to a restaurant’s back entrance and a container filled with garbage. In the freezing air the thing barely smells, something Grantaire is profoundly grateful for as he crosses the six meters from the mouth of the alley. He walks slowly, both not to risk startling what he already suspects is a stray animal, and not to slip on the icy ground.

His phone has a flashlight function, but whatever animal is hiding in there will certainly flee from a sudden bright light.

Squatting down, Grantaire instead reaches out his hand, palm open and up, and waits. Minutes pass by and cramp settles in his legs. The darkness underneath the container has grown quiet. Grantaire aches to stand, wonders if the animal is even still there, but ultimately he keeps down.

Enjolras often tells him he doesn’t believe in anything, and he’d be mostly right. Grand and lofty causes for an imaginary People don’t do it for Grantaire. But actual people, and animals for that matter too, he’s always willing to help out. It’s one reason why he keeps coming back to the social justice warriors club.

An estimated little less than ten minutes later, just about when Grantaire’s ready to give up and leave, soft paws creak on a sheet of fallen plastic. He’s tempted to a victory dance, but that would defeat his purpose. Instead he limits himself to a smile.

Soft fur touches his fingers another few minutes later. Short and skittish, it’s just a brush that makes sitting alone in the dark and cold and with sore legs immediately worth it. He curls his fingers experimentally; they obey only slowly. He’d like to pick up the animal, but gloves are apparently a must when one wants to retain feeling in their extremities. Besides, it’s not the right way to approach this situation.

The situation in question approaches him again, and Grantaire bites his lip to stop himself from laughing out loud. What can he say? He giggles at his own jokes and pins are the pinnacle of humour. This time, in addition to soft, slightly tangled fur, he is graced with a lick of a tongue, coarse and wet. This close, he can finally make out the animal’s silhouette: a small cat, perhaps a kitten still. With the exception of two large, luminous eyes, it’s also completely black. No wonder it was indistinguishable from the shadows before.

The kitten is also filthy and horrifyingly thin and were it not for Grantaire’s intrusion, he’s certain it would be curled in on itself to preserve body heat. A second pang in his chest region makes itself known. He’d contribute it to one more piece of his heart breaking, if he didn’t strictly disbelieve in metaphors.

Meanwhile the kitten still investigates his fingers for signs of food or danger; the tuna sandwich from his favourite daily he ate as dinner no doubt plays a role in its curiosity. Another lick, and it’s a near thing to keep his hand still against the tickling tongue. The kitten stiffens, ready to bolt, and Grantaire forces his freezing fingers to keep still a little bit longer. He can’t keep it up much longer, he knows. He’s already lost all sensation in his hand. 

Grantaire holds his breath as the kitten meows softly and continues its investigation. He counts down the seconds as it snuffles, slowly removing his other hand from the relative warmth of his pocket. He’s terrified the kitten will notice and disappear once more, but for now it appears engrossed in covering his thumb in cat slobber. When he reaches zero he grabs the kitten by the scruff of its neck and holds on for dear life as it thrashes against his grip. With extended claws and bared teeth it cuts through sleeve and skin. Little red droplets fly around, but Grantaire ignores the gashes and holds on tight.

He used to have a cat long ago, a nasty beast which he’d appropriately named Tiger. Tiger disappeared for days on end, and more often than not come stumbling home limping and covered in cuts. Grantaire never figured out what the ginger got up to to get in such a state, but afterwards he’d always been the one to make Tiger presentable again. Tiger had not liked baths, nor the ointments he bought in bulk at the vet, and made his displeasure clearly known. Tiger’s long dead now, but left Grantaire with the lasting knowledge on how to handle crazy cats. It helps the kitten is much smaller than Tiger ever was.

When the worst is over he dares to pull the kitten close. One-handed he awkwardly pulls down the zipper of his jacket and presses the kitten against his chest. The small body is a cold shock to his skin and he shivers. As he closes his jacket, fingers trembling and slippery with blood, the kitten surprises him with a sudden increase in ferocity, biting and clawing and jolting in a desperate bid for freedom. Though Grantaire feels for it, empathises even with the desire not to be caged, he doesn’t let go.

His favourite shirt, bought at some concert years ago and now soft,well-worn, and splattered in paint, quickly follows the same route as his sleeves. Even his chest isn’t spared, but it doesn’t matter. The scratches aren’t deep and the frosty air numbs the cuts to the point where he barely feels them anymore.

Closing his jacket has the added benefit of immobilising the kitten while keeping it warm. Shared body heat, and all that fun stuff. Even though the little Tiger-to-be acts more like a leech than a furnace.

With one arm around the bundle on his chest and legs stiff from crouching too long, Grantaire is forced to pull himself up against the garbage container. His muscles protest and he needs a few moments to steady himself. He resolutely doesn’t think about what else might have been in contact with the container.

Stumbling out of the alley, Grantaire resumes his walk to the Musain; they’ll have milk and warmth and most likely a first aid kit. Flóreal has seen more than her fair share of accidents and bar fights and is adept at administering first aid. If he asks nicely she might even do it for free. If not, he could always bribe her with the kitten’s adorably bright eyes.

On the other hand, Enjolras and the rest will be having their meeting in the backroom. He’ll be more than thirty minutes late and Enjolras doesn’t have the highest opinion of him as it is. Grantaire shudders to think how much lower Enjolras’ regard can sink; he’s not sure he wants to find the answer.

He could always skip the meeting altogether. Just stay in the main room until both he and the kitten have recuperated enough to go home. None of his friends need ever know he was there today. He feels his brows pull down into a frown as he contemplates the option. It’s a strange idea: in his mind the Musain is inextricably tied to les Amis de l’ABC. It’s not a place he frequented before meeting Enjolras; the first time he came he’d gotten lost in the neighbourhood and it was pure chance he ran into Bahorel, the one person attending he already knew. While not the most optimal, it is the most practical solution if he wants to spare himself Enjolras’ wrath. His anger thrills, but today he’s suddenly got responsibility for a stray kitten and he’s not about to let it down. He can see Enjolras at the next meeting anyway.

As fast as he dares, Grantaire hurries through the still-falling snow. The sidewalk, wherever the pavement is still visible, appears clear but is treacherously slippery. Manoeuvring through the crowd poses an additional challenge and more than once his balance acquired at boxing training is the only thing keeping him upright. The crowd thins as he turns off the main road into a less-travelled side street. Lights shine through the Musain’s windows and he releases a sigh of relief as warm air envelops him. His beanie is wet with snow and as it melts the ice-water starts trickling down his back. He keeps his jacket on for fear of upsetting the kitting; now that it’s finally calmed down he’d do anything to prevent it that way.

The bar is packed with patrons, drinking the evening away in a steady hum of chatter and alcohol. Mondays are always the quietest day of the week. It allows Grantaire to make his way over to the bar without bumping into anyone. Flóreal raises an eyebrow at his approach, which turns into a full-blown frown as she takes in his appearance.

He’s aware he must look like a mess, with melting snowflakes in his hair, a conspicuous lump on his chest, and his sleeves in tatters, but isn’t prepared for the full strength her gaze. Almost he flinches, but luckily for him over the past year he’s gotten used to Enjolras’ glares. This is like a candle next to a forest blaze. Chuckling, he figures he’s spent too much time hanging around Jehan when even his thoughts start rhyming.

“What happened to you?” Flóreal asks in her blunt, no-nonsense manner. And, looking him over once more, she adds “You’re late,” almost as an afterthought. Flóreal has worked the Monday and Friday shifts at the Musain ever since Enjolras first started his little social justice club, and sometimes she knows their schedule even better than they do themselves. He likes her, considers her something of a friend, and they’ve hung out a few times over the last couple months. They share the same taste in sci-fi movies.

“I know I’m late,” he says as he clumsily climbs onto a free barstool, ignoring her first question for the moment. “Say, do you happen to have some warm milk back there?” He glances around. “And a hot chocolate?”

Grantaire is treated to the singular experience of watching Flóreal’s mouth fall open in surprise, and he almost wishes he’d taken a picture.

As it is, she recovers her composure way too quickly to be fair. “Alright, who are you and what have you done to Grantaire?” she demands. She squints. “Also - are you drunk already?”

He wants to be offended, but in her place he would’ve asked the exact same thing. For the record, he hasn’t had a single drop of alcohol since the welcome-back-to-university-party thrown by Courfeyrac on Saturday.

For a moment, he debates telling versus showing. On one hand, the last thing he wants is disturbing the kitten after making a mess of his shirt and chest that with the return of his circulation starts stinging and that he therefore stubbornly refuses to think about. On the other, finding, coaxing, and rescuing a kitten from a dark alley dumpster is not the most believable tale he’s ever thought up either, even when drunk. Flóreal’s already suspicious he’s started on his liquor stash back home, and on more than one occasion she’s had to help him stumble down from the backroom before he and Enjolras could come to physical blows.

A soft snoring sound takes the decision from his hands. Gently Grantaire pries open the top of his jacket, leaning forward to show Flóreal the now-sleeping kitten. It’s curled up against his heart, claws firmly attached to the tattered remains of his favourite shirt.

Flóreal makes a sound that Grantaire optimistically chooses to interpret as a gasp of admiring surprise. Rather than, say, shock at the state of his chest or his bloody fingers. Some heads turn around them to see what the fuss is about. Not willing to draw any sort of attention to the kitten for fear of waking it, Grantaire quickly zips up his jacket. Turning back to Flóreal, he puts on his best puppy-dog eyes. She resists them for a few short moments, but then she sighs. “One warm milk and a hot chocolate, coming up. On the house.”

“You’re the best.”

She flicks a finger in his direction even as she walks into the kitchen. “And don’t you forget it.”

He laughs. She returns a sort while later with a mug of hot chocolate. “Not quite your usual fare, but you do look like you need it.” Her face remains stoic as she speaks, leaving Grantaire to reluctantly take it as a compliment.

“I have to look for the milk, it’s usually stored after the day shift.” Flóreal only works evenings. She’s then called away by another patron. Grantaire sips the hot chocolate and though it obviously isn’t handmade the way his grandma made it, it still tastes amazing. It warms him up inside and sooner than he’d like the mug is empty.

Again Flóreal disappears in the kitchen, and it’s a few minutes before she returns with a cup of warm milk and what looks like the contents of an entire first aid kit. There’s a role of bandages, a tube of antiseptic, wet wipes for the blood. Her face is serious when she orders him to take care of himself.

Normally he’d make a joke, laugh it off, but even he knows this isn’t the right time and he only nods in response. With his free hand he stuffs the tube, bandages, and wipes in his pocket and lifts the hot milk, careful not to spill. He heads for the stairs leading to the backroom, tiptoeing around the more inebriated guests.

He pauses in front of the door. He’d promised himself not to do this, but now he’s here and Flóreal so casually assumed he’d come for the meeting, and he can hear Enjolras’ voice lead a lively discussion about the cause of the week. He could still turn back, find a secluded corner in the main room, get the kitten to drink something, and allow both of them to get rid of the cold that still hangs around him. And then just go home, like he’d originally planned.

He doesn’t have to subject himself to dealing with Enjolras’ stupidly pretty face and ridiculous notions of a better world. But if he doesn’t, he’d also miss out on all of his friends. Their clashing schedules makes it very difficult to get a hold of all of them. Though they do always make time for Enjolras and his meetings, the dark corner of his brain reminds him. He forcefully pushes the thought down by focusing hard on the grain pattern in the wooden door. It isn’t true and certainly not helpful.

Even in his mind it sounds like a challenge. He sighs. Sometimes he hates himself and wishes he weren’t so stubborn. Now he has to go prove himself wrong and force the ungrateful voice to acknowledge his friends do care. Even if it means turning up late and interrupting Enjolras’ undoubtedly productive meeting.

With the kitten still securely propped up on one arm, he adjusts his grip on the milk and pushes down on the door handle with his elbow. He doesn’t spill a single drop. The door opens smoothly and quietly, and he shuffles along the back of the room to his usual seat.

The lively debate progresses to an almost-argument and as such captures all attention. Feuilly scoots a bit to the side to let him through and Bossuet absentmindedly claps his back as he sits down, but no one else notices his arrival. He’s careful to keep his face down and let his beanie - cold and soaked from the molten snow - and curls obscure the few scratches on his face. Bahorel and Courfeyrac are arguing the finer points of some impartiality clause, if Grantaire understands correctly. From there the topic quickly moves to impartiality in politics, as things are wont to do in this particular student society, and this is when Enjolras moves in. Usually that’d be Grantaire’s cue to start paying attention too, but with effort he tunes it out to focus on the problem comprised of quickly cooling milk and a sleeping feral kitten on his chest.

Flóreal poured the milk in one of the nondescript mugs used to serve the strongest liquors, the ones that come from bottles without label. Nobody bats an eye as he puts the mug on the table, more than used to his drinking habits, though even for him it’s a bit early for such strong stuff. Pulling the zipper of his jacket down, just a few centimetres, is enough to get an impression of the situation. As expected, the kitten is fast asleep. Poor thing; this must be the first time in a long while it’d been warm. Also as expected, though, his own chest is streaked red, thin streams that start to bleed sluggishly in the heat of the Musain. A gust of air stings the wounds and he has to bite down a hiss. The kitten shivers and Grantaire freezes, but it’s false alarm and it remains asleep.

Slowly, as to not startle his carry-on guest, he opens his jacket a bit further. The milk - lukewarm, now - almost reaches the brim of the mug. He dangles temptingly it in front of the kitten’s mouth. It sniffs, then yawns, and its tongue darts out to lick the milk. Only when the kitten goes in for a second experimental taste, as opposed to clawing his eyes out, does he release the breath he isn’t aware he’s been holding.

“Grantaire?”

His name trickles down into his consciousness, filtered through the running commentary of his own mind. He doesn’t pay it much attention, occupied with the kitten now drinking steadily. It’s a few moments later that he realises the only reason he heard his name at all was because the background noise of the debate at some point fell away. He slowly lifts his eyes to find every single member of the Amis staring at him. “Hi?” is his very intelligent response.

A veritable choir of gasps arises when his friends see his face. He knows it’s because of the scratches (and won’t they love to see his chest?) and he knows they’d never hurt him, but something deep inside still stings. Memories come to mind of awkward teenage years and an uncomfortable relationship with his mirror that aren’t buried as completely as he’d like them to be. With the exception of the one that came pre-installed in his cheap apartment’s bathroom, he still doesn’t own any mirrors. It takes all his strength not to avert his face, to silence the little voice that says he’d better turn around, turn away. His legs are already tense, ready to jump up and run.

Naturally Enjolras recovers quickly enough to speak first; probably because now his outside is just that bit closer to what Enjolras must imagine he looks like on the inside. But it’s Enjolras, so of course he listens.

“What happened to your face?” The question has all the subtlety of a blood-red bullet, the kind that Grantaire wishes would appear out of thin air right about now and shoot him. Unfortunately, he has no fairy godmother to make it come true.

In his peripheral vision he catches Combeferre gently elbowing Enjolras, a frown on his face that’s familiar in its I-expected-better-from-you-ness. More than once Grantaire’s been its recipient. However, with Enjolras distracted by Combeferre, Joly’s the real menace here. He’s already pushed Bossuet aside to claim his chair, and currently makes grabby hands to the bandages and antiseptic. If there was space in the crowded backroom and no sleeping kitten on his chest, Grantaire would back away from Joly’s ferocious gaze. At least he’s dodged Enjolras’ question.

It’s obvious he can’t keep the kitten a secret much longer, but he’d rather avoid Joly’s lecture on strays and fleas and infections and Enjolras’ imminent surprise. Once in a while Grantaire does something and Enjolras interprets it as him caring about the Cause (Enjolras’ capitals, not his. He’d rather reserve capitals for puns) and Grantaire cannot look into those blue eyes when they’re filled with futile hope. It makes him hope too and the heartbreak when he and Enjolras inevitably end up fighting again simply isn’t worth it.

“Not so loud!” he hisses and Joly falters, mid-plucking off his beanie, before his eyes narrow. A drop of cold snow-water falls in Grantaire’s neck and creeps down his back.

“Raoul Grantaire, what do you have hidden in your jacket?”

“… I do believe the line goes _What has it got in its pocketses?_ ”

“Grantaire!” Joly’s scolding. He’s in doctor-mode now. It’s scary.

“Fine, alright. It was a joke. No need to get so worked up about it.”

“You come in late, covered in cuts and blood,” Joly takes Grantaire’s free hand and puts it on the table, plain for all to see, “and you say it’s a joke?” Joly, at least, is not joking anymore. Out of all their friends, Joly’s the one Grantaire goes to when he needs someone to talk to. Joly is one of the few who has any idea what kind of thoughts whirl around in his head. It’s touching, how much he cares. There’s a slight pressure behind his eyes and Grantaire resolutely doesn’t blink to make to moisture go away.

Still. He’s not quite ready to share the black kitten with the group. Less than an hour ago it was still shivering in the snow, it has since possibly scarred his chest forever, and yet he feels protective. Just sometimes he wishes his friends were a little less nosy; at the same time, they wouldn’t be so close if they weren’t.

He carefully opens his jacket a little further, leaning forward to reveal the kitten against his heart. It’s luckily been calm ever since drinking the milk. “I found this little one outside. Just couldn’t leave it there in the snow.”

“Grantaire,” Joly says softly. “Grantaire. What happened to your chest?”

“What?” For a moment he’s confused. He looks down, and yeah, the kitten really did a number on it. But that’s not the thing they should be focusing on. “It’s nothing,” he waives the concern away.

“It’ll get infected if you don’t clean it right away.” It’s not even Joly who says it, although he nods along heavily to Combeferre’s calm words.

And he gets it, he really does, for despite being no med student he’s been in enough scuffles to know how to deal with cuts. “I can’t move right now!” he protests. His words fall on deaf ears and the kitten is gently pried loose and manhandled away from him. He moves to stand and retrieve it from Bossuet, but Joly pushes him back in his chair. From there the kitten moves through the well-meaning but not always entirely capable hands of what seems like the complete group until Joly blocks his vision.

Joly’s found the antiseptic and forces his hair back for better access. He only clicks his tongue when Grantaire flinches against the sting, and Feuilly grasps his shoulders to hold him still.

“This hurts worse than the actual scratches,” he complains. Joly only looks more determined. Bossuet grins over his shoulder.

“Best to get it over with now. If it festers, you’ll wish for the sweet pain of antiseptic. And I should know, I’ve often enough gotten an infection. Besides,” he adds while gently nuzzling Joly without disturbing him, “this one’s the best doctor you can wish for. None are as good as he!” The last part is proclaimed to the room as a whole and received with a round of cheers.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Joly smiles before resuming a serious expression. With the kitten gone, he also has a prime view of the mess that is Grantaire’s chest. He doesn’t even need to say anything; a raised eyebrow is more than sufficient. Grantaire grunts when pushing off his jacket and shivers when he takes off his shirt. Joly just stares at the carnage for a moment, and to Grantaire’s intense delight puts down the tube with antiseptic in favour of the wet wipes. The cuts are now bleeding more freely, though a crust has already formed over some of them. Joly dabs at the dried blood first.

“I’m curious,” he begins while he works. “How did you ever think you’d be fine doing this by yourself, without us noticing?”

Grantaire approximates a shrug but with Feuilly still holding on to him, it looks more like he’s flailing.

“Hm.” Joly deems the cuts clean enough to start with the antiseptic again. Grantaire hisses through his teeth and Bahorel grabs his other shoulder. Grantaire closes his eyes for a few minutes, until he’s been thoroughly disinfected and Joly starts applying bandages. When he looks up the kitten has somehow ended up in Enjolras’ arms. Grantaire follows his movements like a hawk, barely blinking as he strains to keep them in his field of vision. Lord knows he loves Enjolras, but he also feels strangely responsible for his little black rescue stray and he’s not quite sure Enjolras and fragile baby organisms are necessarily the best combination.

The kitten is now fully awake and makes quick work of the remnants of milk while Enjolras nervously but determinedly strokes its back. The image does things to Grantaire’s insides, things he’d rather not examine too closely for fear of either bursting into tears on the spot or revealing some very awkward and long-held confessions. For neither is this the right time or place.

So he averts his gaze and instead focuses on Courfeyrac, who demands an epic tale of the rescue. Grantaire obliges, embellishing details and skipping over the unimportant aspects like exactly how freezing cold it was; he knows he can tell a good story. But all the while he keeps shooting glances towards their leader in all but name. He’s remarkably gentle with the kitten, which nestles in his arms but remains alert in the noisy backroom. Fingers trace the black fur from head to flank, and soothing words are whispered into the small ears. From the other side of the room Grantaire cannot hear what he says, but knowing Enjolras, he’s willing to bet it’s a revolutionary lullaby, if such a thing even exists.

The story finishes at about the same time Joly’s done tying bandages around his chest. “I don’t think you need stitches,” he says almost apologetically, peering again at Grantaire’s face. “But do try to take it easy this week. Your body needs time to heal.”

Again Grantaire waves Joly’s concern, however well-meant, away with a grand gesture of his hand. He smirks while putting the remains of his shirt back on, followed by his jacket. It’s a bit dryer than when he entered, but not much. “My body is a temple to Mars and a mere dinghy faced with the Fates’ tempest,” he says because he’s a pretentious little shit at heart. He grins at Joly’s pained expression and Jehan’s obvious delight. The latter even digs out his notebook to copy the lines down in a flowing cursive.

“Just take care,” Joly tries. Grantaire tips his beanie before planting it firmly on his head.

On the other side of the room, Combeferre now holds the kitten, face drawn. Grantaire is suddenly glad it’s not Enjolras he has to retrieve the kitten from. He’s not sure he’d survive that interaction. Relief colours Combeferre’s features when he hands the little thing back to Grantaire. “Not a fan?” he asks. Combeferre shakes his head.

“I prefer insects.” Grantaire shudders in exaggeration and is quickly joined by Bahorel.

“Insects,” Bahorel repeats. “You hear that? Combeferre picks insects over this beautiful feline creature!”

“Don’t tease Combeferre over his moth obsession,” Courfeyrac proclaims solemnly. He drapes his arm over Combeferre’s shoulders, who allows it with an exasperated sigh. “I’m the only one who earned that right when we were six and I am not about to share that privilege with you heathens.”

While Bahorel in mock-outrage protests being called a heathen, Grantaire quickly checks over the kitten. It doesn’t seem harmed, though the meeting has devolved into a mess that has it on high alert. Grantaire fears it’ll dart away if he but for a moment loosens his arms. Jehan’s help is appreciated as he presses the kitten to his chest and closes his jacket. Luckily, this time it accepts the constraint without too much of a fuss and Grantaire’s eyes remain spared for the moment. Only when he’s completely bundled up do the rest notice he’s leaving.

“Where are you going?” Coufeyrac asks in confusion, looking up from where he’s losing an armwrestling match with Bahorel for the right to call him heathen.

“Home,” Grantaire answers as he makes his way to the door, picking up the empty mug and first aid supplies as he goes along. Mentally he’s already making a list of things he’ll have to arrange for the kitten. It seems to like his chest as pillow, even with the bandages, so it can sleep in his bed tonight. He doesn’t have the energy to buy something more appropriate. He’ll have to remember to close the bedroom door; he doesn’t mind his chest being torn open, but he draws a definite line at his paintings. Tomorrow he’ll take it to the vet for a check-up and then he’ll see if he can find a shelter. As much as he likes the kitten, he doesn’t have the money to take care of it. Until then, however, he thinks he’s got enough milk at his place not to need a detour to the supermarket.

“Home?” Enjolras repeats and it’s bewildered. Grantaire stops reviewing his list and turns around, giving Enjolras his full attention. Not that that’s a difficult thing to do, after all. Enjolras is speaking again, and Grantaire refocuses. “Already?”

Grantaire nods.

Enjolras seems to hesitate, if he didn’t know Enjolras never hesitates. Grantaire’s never known him as anything but confident. Then, strangely formal, “Do you require assistance?” 

“Assistance?”

A slight red tinges Enjolras’ cheeks. “Yes. With the kitten, and everything.”

Grantaire’s eyes widen, but then everything clicks. He laughs. “You like it, don’t you? You’d even endure my company for its sake.”

“That’s not what I meant at all!” Enjolras is back to his fiery self, but he cannot convince Grantaire.

“No. My flat’s completely out of your way and I wouldn’t want to trouble you.” I can’t take your friendship for an evening, and be discarded the next morning, he silently adds. “Besides, I’m bringing this little thing to a shelter first thing tomorrow, so you’d better not get attached.”

Enjolras has the audacity to pale at his words. “You’re bringing it to a shelter?”

“I don’t have the money to care for a cat, as much as I may want to. So yeah, a shelter is the best option, considering I found it literally hiding behind a dumpster. So unless you have any better ideas…?”

“Oh.” Enjolras appears flustered, of all things, but Grantaire quickly dismisses the notion. Enjolras doesn’t get flustered. And right, maybe he’s put him on something of a pedestal, but the fact remains that Grantaire, in the year and three months that he’s known him, has never seen Enjolras blush. Ever.

But the kitten squirms, so he leaves confusing discussions with Enjolras for later, waves once more to his friends, and departs the backroom. The Musain is a bit quieter than when he arrived, but not by much. Flóreal is still busy with drinks, and he waves as he puts the medical supplies on the bar. She waves back, but a group of first-year students he’s never seen here before orders a round and she’s whisked away. In the cosy entrance he takes a moment to readjust his arm and the kitten, and stuff his free hand as deep in his pocket as it’ll go, and then he’s outside in the cold.

Cats need to be locked in basket before they’re allowed on the métro. Where he’d normally be home in a few minutes, now he has quite a walk ahead. Luckily the snow’s stopped, but the pavement is covered in slippery white and he’s got to walk slowly to maintain his balance. Walking in a straight line would be a lot easier if he’d had a drink, he thinks wistfully. At least then he’d have the confidence and sense in general not to fall over. And it’d keep him warm. But instead he’s got a tiny black baby life pressed against him, solely reliant on him, so he’s damn well going to be responsible for once. At least the bandages help against the freezing air.

His apartment is cold and dark when he finally enters and the first thing he does is turning up the lights and heater as far as it can go. It saves money not to let it burn while he’s out, but today he thoroughly regrets that decision. He takes of the beanie but leaves his jacket on. From the bottom of a drawer, tucked away in a corner, he unearths two extra blankets and throws them over his bed. The kitten meows and he heats up another cup of milk and contemplates grabbing a bite to before bed as well. The sorry state of his pantry does however put a quick stop to any plans of a midnight snack. He sighs. He really should bite the bullet and get groceries tomorrow.

Once the mug is empty he puts it in the sink with the rest of today’s dishes. Ever since he got home the exhaustion of the day has been creeping up on him. There is still that bottle of vodka in the fridge…

The kitten yawns and resolutely he turns away. In the hallway he just stares at the black menace for a while. For an entire night he’s going to sleep in the same bed as the little monster and hope he won’t wake shredded to pieces. He yawns. Clearly the alcohol’s finally succeeded in corroding his brain and he’s gone crazy. That, or he’s been insane to start with.

Annoyed at the frankly ridiculous route his thoughts have taken, he enters his bedroom and carefully closes the door behind him. He checks the handle twice. “Right, time for bed,” he mutters as he opens his jacket all the way. His arm’s long since gotten numb. The kitten doesn’t squirm, though it doesn’t quite relax either as he puts it on the middle of the bed. All progress counts and he keeps a careful eye on the black puddle as he changes into an old pair of sweatpants and a worn t-shirt that serve as pyjamas. It takes more time than usual as the bandages restrict some movement and he feels the pull on his skin.

Without fanfare Grantaire picks up the kitten and slips under the covers. Like a little furnace it settles on his chest and soon his charge is asleep. He follows soon after.

* * *

The next morning arrives with sunlight in his face and a three-day stubble he really needs to shave off. He feels refreshed in that special way that comes from not waking to a shrieking alarm. He turns around, cheek smashed in his pillow, intend to get another few precious minutes. That’s when he notices the lack of comforting weight pressing him down. Suddenly he’s wide awake and unfortunately still sober, and a headache blooms near his temples. He grants himself a moment to groan in his pillow, chants the word _responsibility_ , and sits up.

First he assesses the damage. The kitten is nowhere to be seen, but at least the bedroom door’s still closed. No obvious destruction of the mess of clothes on the floor either. He swings his legs out of bed, careful not to accidentally trample the kitten should it magically appear under his feet. With no clues, he reviews all he knows about cats in general (Tiger was not the best example of normal cat behaviour, but some things are universal), and kneels besides his bed.

Peering underneath, his eyes need a moment to adjust and even then, it takes some time before he spots the jet-black animal half-hidden behind the boots he’d kicked out of the way. There’s a sudden urge to go back to bed and let the situation resolve itself, but again _responsibility_ echoes through his head like a mantra. A glance at his alarm clock, glimpsed when he first opened his eyes, told him he’s got little over an hour before his first lecture of the day begins. At 11:00, but he’s never been a morning person.

He reaches out as far as he can, ignoring the stretch of broken skin, and makes soothing noises. The kitten eyes him warily from its hiding place, eyes large and luminous. It takes a bowl of warm milk and another twenty minutes before he’s able to coax the kitten out, during which Grantaire seriously contemplates pushing the bed aside. It’d be a good idea too, were it not that Tiger used to move away with it.

Finally, when it’s almost twenty past ten, he’s able to grasp the scruffy neck and pulls the kitten close. It thrashes, of course, but now he has protection in the shape of a thick layer of white bandages. Miraculously they survive the onslaught. Maybe it starts to like him, he sarcastically considers when the kitten calms down much quicker than the night before. With short movements he strokes its back while it laps up the remaining milk. A pink tongue stands out brightly against the blackness of the fur.

“I really should think of a name for you,” he mutters. “I can’t keep calling you ‘kitten’ in my head all the time, now can I?”

No sign of understanding comes forth. Grantaire stares at it for a moment.

“Nyx,” he says then, testing the sound. It feels right, he thinks, and is appropriate enough.

When he looks at the alarm again he’s got only thirty-five minutes left to get dressed, eat breakfast, and make the twenty-five minute journey towards the university campus. And he has to do all that while keeping an eye on a skittish homeless kitten that he really should drop at the shelter first. He’ll forgo shaving today, he thinks ruefully wile rubbing his chin with his free hand. Three-day old stubble it is.

He deposits Nyx in the middle of his unmade bed, where he can at least see it if she decided to make a break for it. Yesterday’s clothes are still on the floor and don’t smell too bad, so he pulls them on. The only exception is a new shirt. His stomach growls and he glances at Nyx, who’s fallen asleep. A distant memory of Tiger as a kitten comes drifting up, the rare days he laid napping in the sun for hours. Nyx does lie in a pool of light. He chances it.

In the kitchen he opens his almost-empty fridge and takes out the bottle of vodka. Pouring himself a single shot, he contemplates the necessity of hurrying. He’s going to be late anyway, and it’s not like he attends every lecture in the first place. He opens the last yogurt package, mixes it with the shot, and spoons the result up at his leisure.

Later, when he’s finished brushing his teeth, he finally takes a look at the mirror mounted above the sink. His reflection forces him to concede his friends’ concern last night was completely justified. Even cleaned and disinfected, he’s an even greater mess than usual. Sharp red lines cross his forehead and cheeks. Gingerly he touches a red gash, flinching as he does so. The combination with his twice-broken nose and too-wide set eyes make his face seem even more distorted.

As soon as he’s done inspecting the wounds, he turns away. The single comfort of looking like he does is that he’s never the one who has to look at his face.

He’s reluctant to change the bandages Joly so carefully wrapped around his torso. A quick google search tells him clean linen goes a long way in accelerating the healing process, but he’s not nearly so good with wrapping them as Joly. Whom he’ll therefore have to visit this afternoon.

This time he’s smart enough to, after a moment of consideration, empty his sports bag from all his boxing gear and pad it with old blankets. Nyx is lifted inside and only once he’s sure the kitten is comfortable does he shrug on his own jacket. It’s still freezing outside, but for now it’s the best he has.

Not far from his apartment, just down the street, is a veterinarian; the only reason he knows this is because it’s on his daily commute to university. He’s never been inside and he looks around curiously when he arrives. The space is clean and white, but lacks the cold sterility often associated with hospitals. There’s a door in the back with a small window, through which a large space filled with animals is visible.

No one’s there except him, so he rings the bell at the desk. While he waits, he reads the information poster on the wall. Apparently, this place is not just a vet, but has a secondary function as animal shelter.

Halfway through the poster, a plump woman clad in sensible jeans underneath an open white coat emerges from the door. She looks slightly shocked when she spots Grantaire, but quickly smiles and introduces herself as madame Toussaint, veterinarian.

“Good morning, madame,” he begins and gently puts his bag on the desk, allowing her a look at Nyx inside. “I found it yesterday evening outside in the snow,” he explains. He strokes Nyx’ fur. Some dirt and grime still stick to her belly, but yesterday evening Grantaire had not been up for giving a feral kitten a bath. The lack of severe tangles told him even then it hadn’t been on the streets for long. “Took it home, fed it warm milk, and came here.”

Madame Toussaint hums as she methodically looks Nyx over. “And you’ve come to drop it off, now?” she asks.

Grantaire nods. “I can’t afford to take care of a cat.”

At that she looks up sharply. “But you do want to?”

“I do.”

She studies him intently and he does his best not to squirm. “I take it this cat is responsible for those?” She indicates Grantaire’s face and for a moment he is confused before he remembers that yes, his face does look like it went through the shredder. He shrugs.

“It’s not Nyx’ fault.”

Her look when she narrows her eyes reminds him of Joly, when someone’s gotten themselves unnecessarily hurt in a protest that won’t change a single thing anyway. “I’m not qualified to treat human patients, but you’re not the first person assaulted by their pet. Wait a moment. I got some salve lying around.” Ducking behind the counter, she soon reappears with a tube. “Put it on every morning and evening, it should prevent scarring.”

He tries to refuse, but madame Toussaint is adamant. “Just take it,” she finally says, a note of irritation in her voice. “I work as a vet and run a shelter; I’ve got hundreds of these lying around.”

Grantaire caves and accepts the salve. Scarring would either make his face look a hundred times worse, or finally give it that mysterious ranger flair he’s secretly craved ever since he first saw Aragorn in _The Lord of the Rings_. Satisfaction drips from madame Toussaint’s smile even as she coughs. “Nothing to worry about. Just the weather and my asthma fighting it out.”

She is silent as she takes Nyx to a backroom to first weigh the tiny mass of kitten, and then prods her fingers at all kinds of places that probably offer some important piece of medical information that Grantaire cannot begin to guess at, but it looks painful. Madame Toussaint smiles when she notices him watching. It’s the kind of smile parents give their children when they need comforting, the kind doctors send their patients when they tell something won’t hurt.

“Cats have a different anatomy than humans,” she explains. “For example, if I were to pick this little creature up by the neck, it wouldn’t feel a thing. If I did the same with a human child, I’d probably tear some muscles.” Grantaire knows this. Grantaire has years of experience going to vets with Tiger, and years of experience with Tiger himself, which deserves its own award.

“So?”

“So, there’s nothing to worry about.”

Grantaire isn’t convinced. Nyx is so small still; in his memories Tiger always a big cat, resistant to some more heavy-handed treatment. But he’s not the one with years of experience in this field, so he says nothing. Besides, Nyx doesn’t appear to be in any discomfort.

Madame Toussaint has moved on and is now taking Nyx’ temperature while typing away at a computer. Grantaire sits on a stool close by, waiting until she’s done and not quite sure what to do now. Can he go? Does he need to sign something? Should he say goodbye to a kitten he found only twelve hours ago?

His thoughts are interrupted when madame Toussaint places Nyx back on the counter. “Considering the circumstances in which you found her, she’s doing very well,” she tells him.

“Wait. She?”

“She indeed.” Madame Toussaint then proceeds to show him exactly how she reached that conclusion and it’s so much more information than Grantaire ever wanted to know. He can’t remember anything like this with Tiger; then again, it’s more than likely he bleached it from his memory. All he does now is nod and file the knowledge under his mental _random shit and trivia_ tab to one day annoy Enjolras with. Enjolras, who looked absolutely adorable with Nyx in his arms and who’ll probably never see her again.

He pushes the thought away. Enjolras knows she’s going to a shelter and Grantaire knows Enjolras is loaded. He often rants about how he gives most of his monthly allowance away to charities, but his monthly allowance equals about a year salary to normal people like Grantaire. If he truly wants to, he can come and ask which shelter he’s brought Nyx to and buy her himself.

“Do you think she’ll be gone soon?”

“You mean, will it take long until she gets adopted?” Madame Toussaint clicks her tongue and gives Nys an estimating look. “People prefer buying from nests with a pedigree, but she’s still young. Her coat is a beautiful even colour too. I don’t think she’ll stay here for long.”

“Oh.” Distress must show between the cuts on his face, for she reaches out to pat his hand.

“The shelter has daily opening hours. You can come visit her until she’s sold.” It’s a truly kind offer that Grantaire fully intends to take up. Transferring her attention back to the kitten, she asks, “Does she already have a name?”

“Nyx,” Grantaire supplies.

“The Greek personification of the darkness and the night?” Madame Toussaint sounds amused.

He stares at her. Not many people are well-versed enough in Greek mythology to understand the reference, and he hadn’t expected it from the no-nonsense veterinarian who works down his street.

“My cousin is an artist. Long ago, when we both studied at university, she did an internship with a famous painter who loved to recreate the myths. At the time we lived together, so of course she told me all about it.”

“You must have a good memory.” Grantaire is still too surprised to say much else.

“It’s a fitting name,” Madame Toussaint decides, and that is that. From below the desk she produces some forms that Grantaire is required to fill in. He holds Nyx one last time before madame Toussaint whisks her away deeper into the building, through the door he spotted when he first entered.

He stares after them for a moment, ignoring the sting behind his eyes. Then he grabs his sports bag, turns around and continues his trek to university. He walks; the class will be long over by the time he arrives, but this afternoon he’s got studio and he tries to at least never miss that.

He texts Joly to meet up for lunch and get him to refresh the bandages before studio. Joly quickly returns with an affirmative and they lounge around Joly’s campus flat he shares with Bossuet. They watch an episode of some stupid reality tv show neither pays much attention to. Joly tuts about the cuts and all the while Grantaire’s mind wanders to Nyx.

Before the episode ends he’s already looking up the shelter opening times, knowing that one way or another he’s going to end up there tomorrow. Might as well actively plan for it, he figures.

He hisses when Joly pulls the bandage tight; the unapologetic face of his friend offers no clue whether it was an accident or deliberate.

“You’re still thinking about that cat.”

Grantaire half-turns so he faces Joly. “How do you know?”

Joly sighs. “I know you, R. You’re brooding. You haven’t made a single pun since you arrived.”

“I might have been thinking about something else.” Grantaire crosses his arms, acutely aware it makes him look like a petulant child.

“But you weren’t,” Joly counters.

Grantaire shrugs. He has nothing to say to that; Joly is right after all.

“Grantaire. You know you cannot afford it. If you keep visiting, it’ll only be harder to say goodbye once that kitten does get adopted.”

Grantaire doesn’t want to say it, tries to stop the words from leaving his mouth, but he cannot help it. “Enjolras seemed to like her yesterday.”

“Enjolras?” Joly’s eyes widen. “Whatever you’re thinking right now, stop it. You cannot force him to adopt a cat for you.”

“I won’t, okay? I could never ask him anything like that.”

“I know.” Joly hesitates for a moment, then pulls him close, and then goes in all the way and puts his arms around him in a hug. He’s careful with his chest and face, moving slowly so as not to aggravate the skin. Tears suddenly threaten to wet Joly’s sweater and Grantaire tries his best to beat them back. “Ssh,” Joly shushes. “You don’t want to hear this, but like that kitten, one day you’ll have to let Enjolras go. It’s not fair to him or to you to keep idolising him.”

“I don’t want to stop. I can’t stop if I keep seeing him. I can’t stop seeing him without stopping seeing you guys too. What do I have left if not that?”

“Oh Grantaire,” Joly sobs.

It’s comfortable, in an unpleasant sort of way, tucked in the crook between Joly’s neck and shoulder. Warm and dark and safe and utterly humiliating. But Joly’s crying too and rubs his back and there’s no one to witness their mutual breakdown.

“Grantaire, it’s okay to miss something,” Joly murmurs. “You can go to that cat this week, see how it’s settling in, and then leave. Do you want me to come with you?”

“…Yes.”

They don’t talk much afterwards, but Joly keeps holding on until his tears have dried. The salt stings, and he uses Joly’s tissues and madame Toussaint’s salve, which helps. The tv rambles on and Grantaire watches with half an eye until it’s time to leave for studio. Joly ensures him no sign of crying remains. (“Your eyes are always red because of the drink.”)

He trudges across campus to the art building, hidden in a corner of the campus. Inside, he considers the large, half-finished painting on his easel, and puts it aside. Instead he retrieves a smaller canvas, perfect for the image in his head. He sketches Nyx’ features from memory, but the pose - relaxed, playful - is not something he’s seen from her. He spends the entire four hours of alloted working time on the painting, and for once he’s satisfied with the result. This is not about making art; it’s about immortalising a memory.

He takes the painting home - he’s got enough space now in his sports bag - and puts it up in his tiny living room. Evening falls and he stares at it, at her luminous eyes like little glow bulbs in the dark. Halfway through the vodka bottle he can’t stand it anymore. He gets to his feet, wobbles, grabs the couch for balance, and stores the painting with his other finished works in the closet.

* * *

The next day is a Wednesday and he has no classes to attend, but Joly only finishes at four. He sleeps in, smears the salve on his face, and pointedly ignores how empty his little flat feels. Less than a day with a cat and he’s already pathetic in its absence. Resolutely turning away from these thoughts, he uses the rest of the day to read up in sculpture history. The chapter focuses on the differences in Roman and Greek statues. Grantaire loses the hours, immersed in bronze casting and marble carving.

At a quarter to five the ringing of his atrocious bell signifies Joly’s arrival and together they head out to the shelter. Madame Toussaint isn’t in; when Grantaire asks after her, he’s told she’s currently in surgery. They explain the situation to the employee currently manning the desk and then they’re brought to a spacious cage with Nyx inside. Grantaire tuts and coos and generally makes a fool of himself while Joly watches with a smile. It’s not like he cares; most likely he’ll never see the employee again and Joly’s already seen him at his worst. It was only yesterday that he cried on his shoulder.

Nyx remembers him too, for she unfurls from her position lying down when he nears, and licks his face before headbutting him softly. They stay for over an hour, and only leave when the shelter closes at six. Grantaire feels tears roll down his cheeks, but luckily no one comments.

Joly takes them to Grantaire’s favourite restaurant and have dinner over a truly delightful discussion regarding the merits of film series over serialised television. It’s an obvious distraction, but Grantaire welcomes it.

This week the restaurant also has a discount for soulmates, and since Joly and Grantaire are both broke university students, close friends, and not above a little bit of deception, Grantaire plants a loud kiss on Joly’s cheek. Joly reciprocates by putting an arm possessively around Grantaire’s waist. Soulmate couples are rare, so no one questions them. When the waiter asks whether they are together (an undoubtedly obligatory question), they beam and look in each other’s eyes; a trick they’d long since perfected after careful observation of the few bonded couples they did see out in public. It’s always so obvious to see when people are soulbonded or merely together.

Their research proves successful and they put on a good show. With the bill comes the discount, no questions asked, and they finish the day with a movie at Grantaire’s place. It gets cold (Grantaire only just turned on the heater) and as the film progresses they huddle together under the same blankets he retrieved for Nyx.

“Won’t Bossuet be jealous of you spending the evening with me like this? It’s almost like a date,” Grantaire asks, mostly for fun. Bossuet is his other best friend and doesn’t have a bad bone in his body.

Joly grins mischievously. “He can always join us. We’ve been talking about looking for a third partner.”

Grantaire almost chokes on his drink (cola this time; Joly frowns when Grantaire drinks and he never wants to earn Joly’s disapproval), turning fully to face his friend. “Are you serious?”

Joly just smiles mysteriously.

“I’d love to,” Grantaire jokes back once he’s over the shock. “However, unless that relationship also includes a certain personification of the sun god Apollo, I have to refuse.”

Joly shrugs. “It was worth a try.”

Joly leaves later that evening after the film ends, packed up in a multitude of layers and gloves and scarves. It’s started snowing again; for all that it looks ridiculous, Grantaire is rather jealous of the winter-proof outfit. But he does feel much better. Not good, not yet, but better. The feeling persists during the rest of the week, until Friday rolls around with the anticipated ABC meeting.

By then he’s managed to mostly put Nyx out of his mind, though now and again his thoughts swivel back to her. But he’s been following Joly’s advice and hasn’t stopped by the shelter, despite lingering near the front door each day, earning quite some confused looks.

On his way to the Musain for the Friday meeting, he passes the alleyway where he first found Nyx. It’s still cold, still snowing, and people hastily move about their business, careful not to slip on the treacherous ice. He still needs to buy a new winter coat.

Today no pitiful meows catch his attention, though he stops to listen. Today there’s no black kitten to be rescued. It does something strange to his insides that he cannot quite define. He stays there for a while, staring in the dark.

His phone beeps once, informing him the meeting’s starting soon. Shaking his head, he sucks his lungs full of evening air and then expels it all at once. He would say it’s liberating, but that would make him a liar. It’s just cold. He moves on the the pleasant, welcoming warmth of the Musain.

The cuts on his face have mostly healed without leaving scars, just like madame Toussaint promised. Joly pronounced the bandages around his chest superfluous days ago, and Grantaire trudges to the bar, orders his customary liquor from Flóreal (”No rescue pets today?” “Shut up.”), and enters the backroom. He’s early, at least compared to how he usually skirts the line, and only Enjolras and Bahorel have already arrived. Both look up at his entrance.

Enjolras scans his empty arms. “Where’s the kitten?” He blurts out, then looks chagrined at himself.

Grantaire waits until Bahorel releases him from the obligatory bear hug, then cocks an eyebrow. This, at least, is familiar territory. “Didn’t know you cared,” he coos. In response Enjolras frowns threateningly, but it only serves to fuel Grantaire’s grin. “Took it to a shelter as soon as I could. They’d be much better at taking care of it than I.”

Enjolras’ frown deepens and Grantaire wonders what he’s done now. The meeting’s not even started yet and Enjolras looks as if he’s just insinuated Robespierre was a despotic fanatic with equality as his holy crusade. “You’re not bad at taking care of things, Grantaire,” Enjolras says slowly, as if trying to prove a point. Grantaire utterly fails to see said point.

“I can’t even keep a cactus alive and you know it.” All the Amis do; it had been one of his more memorable moments of stupidity involving said cactus, a garden hose, and a very hot summer day.

His humour is clearly not appreciated, but Enjolras is distracted by Courfeyrac’s entrance. As the rest of his friends trickle in, Grantaire retreats to his customary seat in the back, ready to observe the meeting and raise as many annoying objections as he can.


End file.
